I take a pair of shades, head down the coffee bar. Like nobody else I carry moleskin - at the hip, a pocket of change for the ladies' attention. They is all giggling at their counter, sweet for me, no doubt. Cappuccino Tuesday, espresso Monday, no rules in my state of play, and before long I am squeezed in the corner seating: watch customers, write about their pathetic lives, their pathetic conversations. My way is the only way, pen slinger or gigolo, you decide it, bitch x

I am fortunate in having a leaning tower down the end of my garden arrangement - where Rapunzel, my lady, where she lives and where she looks for me. Indeed, I heave upon her lovely locks, I rise to tower, take Rapunzel in my arms, 'but no,' I say, 'must write first, and later, later I will make love to you, if you are still hereabouts with me, my lovely.' I say. Her disappointment is tantalising to me, inspiration for a great tragedy tapped upon this little laptop chap, laptop held underarm, mmm, mmm.

Like, I sit on the bed. Actually, sit alongside the bed, at a desk, and occasionally I blow. Wow, ash tumbles to my carpet. I reckon it's the way to go, all wired up, internet and wordstar express, the full package.

That's a cheaper way than mine. It gets expensive going to Second Cup, and Star Bucks to write. I use to smoke two and a half packs a day. I quit back in 1999. I would never start again, but however I really did enjoy smoking a cigarette. I wish they weren't unhealthy.

I take a pair of shades, head down the coffee bar. Like nobody else I carry moleskin - at the hip, a pocket of change for the ladies' attention. They is all giggling at their counter, sweet for me, no doubt. Cappuccino Tuesday, espresso Monday, no rules in my state of play, and before long I am squeezed in the corner seating: watch customers, write about their pathetic lives, their pathetic conversations. My way is the only way, pen slinger or gigolo, you decide it, bitch x

I am fortunate in having a leaning tower down the end of my garden arrangement - where Rapunzel, my lady, where she lives and where she looks for me, indeed. I heave upon her lovely locks, I rise to tower, take Rapunzel in my arms, 'but no,' I say, 'I must write first, and later, later I will make love to you, if you are still hereabouts with me, my lovely.' I say. Her disappointment is tantalising to me, inspiration for a great tragedy tapped upon this little laptop chap, laptop held underarm, mmm, mmm.

Like, I sit on the bed. Actually, sit alongside the bed, at a desk, and occasionally I blow. Wow, ash tumbles to my carpet. I reckon it's the way to go, all wired up, internet and wordstar express, the full package.

I couldn't write in a coffee shop. Suppose I could. There used to be this guy on the internet - who I teased a little, because he was very, very sincere. I was trying to be his friend, really, and every day he'd visit a coffee shop, write about the people, focussing on a couple of guys, or a girl, anybody. Then he'd...extrapolate...provide a Christian message, a thought for the day - 'fish are plenty, but salmon are tasty.' I sniggered. He had about a million readers on the internet, 1000 comments, including mine, then that breakdown of his. I'm still there, still there on Wordpress, he cracked, went to podcasts, pathetic, eh?

I take a pair of shades, head down the coffee bar. Like nobody else I carry moleskin - at the hip, a pocket of change for the ladies' attention. They is all giggling at their counter, sweet for me, no doubt. Cappuccino Tuesday, espresso Monday, no rules in my state of play, and before long I am squeezed in the corner seating: watch customers, write about their pathetic lives, their pathetic conversations. My way is the only way, pen slinger or gigolo, you decide it, bitch x

I am fortunate in having a leaning tower down the end of my garden arrangement - where Rapunzel, my lady, where she lives and where she looks for me, indeed. I heave upon her lovely locks, I rise to tower, take Rapunzel in my arms, 'but no,' I say, 'I must write first, and later, later I will make love to you, if you are still hereabouts with me, my lovely.' I say. Her disappointment is tantalising to me, inspiration for a great tragedy tapped upon this little laptop chap, laptop held underarm, mmm, mmm.

Like, I sit on the bed. Actually, sit alongside the bed, at a desk, and occasionally I blow. Wow, ash tumbles to my carpet. I reckon it's the way to go, all wired up, internet and wordstar express, the full package.

That's a cheaper way than mine. It gets expensive going to Second Cup, and Star Bucks to write. I use to smoke two and a half packs a day. I quit back in 1999. I would never start again, but however I really did enjoy smoking a cigarette. I wish they weren't unhealthy.

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Well, I hope you write some good stuff. When I was isolated - a year or two ago now, or now, I used to visit writer forums, sometimes the BBC online for my conversations. Occasionally, someone real might come round for the electoral register. And that's how I started, door to door, taking people's details for the elections, it is important work going forward.

I couldn't write in a coffee shop. Suppose I could. There used to be this guy on the internet - who I teased a little, because he was very, very sincere. I was trying to be his friend, really, and every day he'd visit a coffee shop, write about the people, focussing on a couple of guys, or a girl, anybody. Then he'd...extrapolate...provide a Christian message, a thought for the day - 'fish are plenty, but salmon are tasty.' I sniggered. He had about a million readers on the internet, 1000 comments, including mine, then that breakdown of his. I'm still there, still there on Wordpress, he cracked, went to podcasts, pathetic, eh?

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I never thought about writing about the people in the actual shop. That would be an interesting excise to try out sometime.

Well, he was and he wasn't [writing about them]. He's a nice guy, web presence, not my thing, called 'The Culture Monk.'

He was brave because he wrote about major events, [start with 'coffee guy,' end with 'Syrian migrants'] but from a ponce's pov, he never 'nailed' it. It was lightweight stuff - attracted religious folk, re-assuring cod philosophy, no offence.

My favourite place varies by season. In the winter its in my front room, curled up in the furthest corner of my sofa with a cup of something hot (usually coffee or hot chocolate). I have a nice little nook there, and I'm the only one who uses the room (everyone else seems to prefer the downstairs living room because it has a TV). I filled it up with bookcases and a fireplace for the winter and its really quite cozy. Plus I can see the front street through the window which satisfies my occasional need to actually see living people aside from my husband (who is totally used to my hermit ways now).

In the summer I like to write outdoors, which I'll be able to do this year because I have a quiet, fenced in garden with lots of trees and bushes rather than a concrete slab overlooking a busy street like where I used to live.

I've never been able to write in public places; I'm far too self conscious of what I write and way too easily distracted. I tried a few times at various local coffee shops and libraries but just never really got anywhere with it. I like places that are quiet and warm where I can talk to myself as much as I want and not have to deal with people looking at me sideways, asking questions or making small talk around me. I like my solitude.

I like to write on my laptop or phone (somehow I'm more, dare I say it, mellifluous, in typing than in handwriting), sitting in my room, or on the grass in my second-favourite park. My favourite park, alas, is a long ways away.

I'm working on a place to write which I hope will become my fave place. I have invested so much time into doing so that I feel I should make it my tomb if I don't make good on my intentions. Many man hours, muchos moolah and a bold declaration, to anyone who'll listen, that 'there' is where I intend the magic to happen. Nearly done, just gotta get a heater in situ, myself, my laptop and a final wheelbarrow full of motivation.

I'm working on a place to write which I hope will become my fave place. I have invested so much time into doing so that I feel I should make it my tomb if I don't make good on my intentions. Many man hours, muchos moolah and a bold declaration, to anyone who'll listen, that 'there' is where I intend the magic to happen. Nearly done, just gotta get a heater in situ, myself, my laptop and a final wheelbarrow full of motivation.

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How that looks amazing! You've really done a good job on that place. It's away from all the distractions of your main house. Like a little zen hut.

Thanks @RDD1977 ; I'm not going to equip it with wifi, (the internet is such a wily thief of time) just going to use a local writing app on my laptop and a lo-tech manual thesaurus. All research I plan to do completely separately as I have a poor track record with self-discipline.

It's strange but I like driving to a scenic park, leave my windows down and write in my car. I usually have a CD player on hand...yeah, still old school to the core with headphones and get lost in writing for awhile. Barely any distractions and its picturesque enough to draw creativity from.

Well as if it wasn't obvious to the casual observer. A cool dark place with low lighting, and blaring music of all sorts. Always with a cup of coffee, and that look of what the hell do I write next.
On the other side I would go to the park, but seldom is a day the wind does not mournfully blow away. Though my brief stint in college I would write in the foyer of naughty things.
There is no coffee shop to speak of around here as it is against the religious people, and sitting at the ghetto Starbucks in Safeway has no appeal to me.
Oddly enough sitting in the waiting room at a dental clinic worked out with my need to draw while waiting for my ex-wife. Though I don't think they would take kindly to me just sitting
with my laptop playing on my keys, with my earbuds in just to get some writing done. But I bet it would be a great way to get that extra bit of tension in the parts that need it. Seems that the
atmosphere gives you that need to perform, just without the impending scolding for not doing as you have been told to on every other occasion. IDK, sometimes you have to think outside the old box.

Mostly, I write at home. I do take a notebook and pens with me to work, for when um on break, or sometimes try to type in the notepad app on my phone. If it isn't allergy season, I enjoy the natural peace at the family farm.
But, usually, I'm at home, either huddled on my bed, or sitting at the kitchen table.